


A Brief Treatment of Certain Winter Carols

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Christmas Carols, Cognitive Dissonance, From a Mock Academical, Gaslighting, M/M, Mock Academic Prose, Songfic, sort of, where do I even start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: A dissertation prepared by Pengolodh, historian of Imladris, concerning the natures and histories of certain songs popularly sung in the wintertime.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on that one tumblr post, you know [ the one](http://raisingcain-onceagain.tumblr.com/post/154575688485/kanafinwhy-misbehavingmaiar)
> 
> Links are to Youtube, for my sins - they're all pretty awesome, but listen to just that last one if nothing else. . .

**Title** : "O come, o come [term unknown]"

 **Cross** - **reference** : [re-interpretation by one of Lord Elrond](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPHh3nMMu-I)[’s court bards](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPHh3nMMu-I)

 **Account** : A bittersweet hymn set to a powerful air, “O come” adopts one of the fictions supposedly woven by the Deceiver upon first entering Ost-in-Edhil, recasting the historical temptation narrative into a more pious entreaty. The singer presents herself and her people as supplicants, and asks for peace and prosperity in all the individual kingdoms of the Second-Age: different verses name Eregion, Lindon, Lothlórien, Numenór, and Imladris as potential beneficiaries.  _(Footnote: Some scholars have noted odd areas of unspecificity, as though the singer is unsure whether to ask blessings upon Lindon or Lothlórien, and does not even know where Imladris is located. These oddities likely stem from the song’s composition during a turbulent political time, though the ambivalence toward Lindon in particular is unique among the era’s compositions.)_ The hymn’s addressee offers another point of critical contention, though. The most likely candidate, Eönwë, was sometimes imagined to be the offspring of Manwë, but this is a Mannish delusion stemming from the earlier War of Wrath, which makes its inclusion as the focal point in an Eldarin song of the mid- to late- Second Age doubly unusual. With the coming of the Istari still some centuries in the future, though, there were no other angelic beings in Middle-earth to whom this lament could have been addressed. 

 **Sample lyrics** : "O come, O come, [term unknown]/ And ransom captive Hollin Hill / We mourn in lonely exile here / Until a Son of God appear. . ."

 

“To my kinswoman you said that you were sent by the Valar,” Celebrimbor said softly, when the visitor had been brought to the receiving room of his private chambers.

“I did not, my lord,” the Maia corrected him, equally soft. “If that is the inference that the lady Artanis has drawn from my words, then I admit that I see no benefit in correcting her, but that was not my message to the people of Eregion.”

“You want to help us rebuild?”

“I do hope to be of use, though now you are inferring my methods as well,” the angelic being said gently. “My exact words were that I would see Middle-earth healed of its recent ills. This land does not need to be _made_ beautiful and clean: it already was, before the Powers drove half of it underwater and let countless souls perish needlessly during the War.” 

“A directive from the Valar,” Celebrimbor insisted, but the repetition sounded weak and childish even to his own ears. He was suddenly, absurdly grateful that the Maia only smiled and did not correct him directly.

“A directive from myself,” it said. “Perhaps a way in which I can make amends, no matter how small, for the damages wreaked upon the Eruhini by all of the Powers.”

“You owe us nothing.” Celebrimbor could not even wrap his mind around such a thought.

“As someone who has seen Manwë Sulimo and his ilk at work firsthand, I believe I will retain my right to be the judge of what is owed, and by whom.” The Maia stood. “Unfortunately, the lord Cirdan of the Falas and the High King in Lindon alike have turned away from this offer, and it seems now that the lady Artanis of Eregion will do the same. I am unsure where else I can find such a leader to whom I can pledge my efforts – perhaps I will try the Harad next.”

Celebrimbor found himself speaking almost before he knew what he would say. “Stay here. I am no lord, but I am high in the esteem of the city, as a craftsman of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”

He could feel himself flush as the Maia’s deep amber eyes met his, but Celebrimbor quashed the sudden apprehension. He stood in turn and offered his own hand in greeting. “Annatar, you said your name was? Welcome, Annatar, to Ost-in-Edhil.”

 

~ ~ ~

 **Title** : "The twelve days of solstice"

 **Cross-reference** : [instrumental rendition performed at the court of Balar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG0K99lY0B0)

 **Account** : A repetitive chorus popular among the Falathrim, this song recounts the singer’s reminiscences of a series of gifts made over a two-week period during a lean winter. Detractors have long argued whether “Twelve Days” is meant by its Telerin-descended singers to mock or mimic Sindarin courtship songs, which often stress the lover’s pursuit of the beloved through hunting metaphors. Another common point of contention is the song’s intention: critics often speculate whether the courtship convention actually refers to an authentic engagement that enfolded unfortunately during a troubled time, or whether the list of gifts is meant to be a metaphor for the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. _(Footnote: This scholar believes that both explanations are equally ridiculous, as the proud city of Ost-in-Edhil held firm against the Deceiver to the last, and Celebrimbor Curufinwion, the last surviving scion of Feanor’s troubled line, was never recorded as undertaking a courtship.)_ Traditionally played in a minor key, “Twelve Days” starts soft and slow, as if the singer is flattered by the giver’s attentions, but eventually become rushed and stressed, and finally ends on a discordant cry halfway through the last iteration of gifts, as though suddenly silenced. The reiteration of the gifts’ increasing number, worth, and lavishness (the giver begin by offering livestock and farming tools but soon presses gold rings, bribed officials, and trained slaves upon the increasingly-horrified singer) has been seen by some as a forewarning of the Deceiver’s intentions toward Ost-in-Edhil, but again - such critics simply read too much into everything, let alone a simple sea-shanty sung by folk who likely did not even know of the great City of Craft so much further inland.  

 **Sample lyrics** : “On the fifth day of solstice, my true love offered me / Five golden rings. . .”

 

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor sighed, half in amusement and half in exasperation. “Of course you are most welcome here! My answer will remain the same no matter how many times you feel you must ask.”

The Maia huffed as he settled further into the cushions by the fire, pulling his legs forward to tuck his bare feet beneath his robes. Celebrimbor refused to acknowledge the pang that this simple movement sent through his chest.

“Hmph. Do not think that I cannot tell how you laugh at me behind your hands, all the way over there. Yes, I should be able to regulate my own internal temperature; no, I promise you, I am still left somewhat chilled during these ridiculous snowfalls despite such a happy ability. Do stop smirking and come sit with me, silly creature. Bring the wine.”

“How could I resist such a gracious invitation?” Celebrimbor chuckled at the face that his friend pulled, but all the same he grabbed the bottle and came to stand beside the Maia, grinning as Annatar pulled petulantly at his shirt hem.

“Sit, sit! I’m not stretching my neck just so I can see you as we talk.”

Celebrimbor laughed as he tumbled to an ungrateful seat mere feet away from Annatar. “And what if I insisted that I shouldn’t need to sit, as we would not be talking?” He held the bottle out, but when Annatar took it with a strange look, Celebrimbor realized what it must sound like he was asking of the Maia.

“No, no,” he sputtered. “Ai, my friend, I am so sorry to embarrass, I did not think before I opened my mouth. . .”

Annatar smiled, graciously, as he poured for himself. “I am not embarrassed, dear heart. In fact, I wonder why we have not talked about this before? I have never lain with another: I am curious whether the experience is all that it is vaunted to be.”

Celebrimbor, who had just lifted his own glass to his mouth, sputtered again.

 

~ ~ ~

 **Title** : "Dear heart, it’s cold outside"

 **Cross-reference** : [a Mannish version popularized mid-Third Age](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MFJ7ie_yGU)

 **Account** : First recorded among the refugees of Eregion who settled in Lindon, “Dear heart” relates a negotiation between two speakers: the first insists that he must leave the second’s dwelling place, and the second reiterates that the weather is worsening and the first, his friend, should remain in safety with him. Though the most likely explanation stems from the refugees’ being crowded into inadequate housing following the sack of Ost-in-Edhil and the winter trek across ravaged Eregion to reach questionable safety in Lindon, critics insist on offering alternative explanations. Interpretations of “Dear heart” range from foolish assertions that the speakers are actually arguing over premarital propriety to irrational insistences that the second speaker is denying the first speaker consent through touch, social pressure, and strong drink. _(Footnote: Worse, the silliest critics insist on finding an allegorical meaning to a relatively straightforward narrative – a detestable practice. History, whether true or feigned, is always to be preferred, as it may speak to the varying thought and experience of its readers where allegory simply dictates what such thought and experience must find. This tangent is meant to be taken as a cordial warning from a concerned scholar, not in any way an argument that “Dear heart” might be seen as even slightly historical beyond its roots in the Eregion refugees’ experience.)_ Matters are further complicated by the song’s original arrangement for two males, though most Mannish bards now use a female for the first speaker and a male for the second – a senseless change that unnecessarily highlights the second speaker as a voice of increasing and concerning vehemence.

 **Sample lyrics** : “I ought to say no, no, no (2nd voice: Mind if I move in closer?) / At least so I can say that I tried (2nd voice:  What's the sense in hurting my pride?) / I really can't stay (2nd voice: Dear heart, don't hold out) / (both voices) Ah, but it's cold outside.”

 

“You – you actually participated in the War?”

“Dear heart.” Annatar seemed irrationally amused by this question. “How else do you imagine I already knew so much of the peoples and customs to be found this side of the Sea?”

“I suppose I had never given the question much thought.” Celebrimbor leaned against the bench and smiled across at his lover. “If it ever even occurred to me that there was a question to be asked.”

Annatar offered him a small smirk in return, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Celebrimbor’s for a brief moment before drawing back again. To scoff at his shortsightedness, Celebrimbor imagined fondly. “And now that you have realized I did indeed exist elsewhere, in other forms, before meeting you, sweet one, do you have any other silly questions for me?”

Celebrimbor swung himself to sit atop the bench, laughing at the way Annatar scowled at his new height.  “I admit that I am unreasonably curious what you mean by ‘other forms.’ There are so many possibilities! Were you-“

He stopped, suddenly, struck as Annatar turned his face away. “Ai, my love. . . I did not mean to make light of you,” he said softly. “You know that I had been stowed in Artanis’s holds for ‘safekeeping,’ and I was not actually there to see most of the War. Obviously I will get much of this utterly wrong.”

The corner of Annatar’s mouth that was still visible twitched as if the Maia was fighting a smile. “Indeed you will, dear heart. It is no judgment upon you, but sometimes – sometimes I do wonder whether I should even speak of what I did during the War. I doubt you will understand.”

“I may not understand you, and perhaps I will not understand all you have been through, but – Annatar.” Hopping from his perch atop the bench, Celebrimbor circled around to kneel before his lover. “I do know that I love you, and I would cherish any confidences you placed in me.”

Annatar would not meet his eyes. “Any? Do not make light promises to me, Noldo.”

“Are we back to race-based epithets, truly? Please, love.” Reaching up, Celebrimbor tucked his fingers beneath Annatar’s chin and raised his face. Strangely, Annatar let him. “I do not make promises that I do not intend to keep. You can tell me.”

 

~ ~ ~

 **Title** : "Scarborough Fair/Greensleeves"

 **Cross-reference** : [performed in the Imladris Hall of Fire by Second-Age re-enactors  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H13f7B5QN4s)

 **Account** : Though often performed together, these two songs have disparate origins and traditions. “Fair,” said to be a wanderer’s melody with roots stretching back to Cuiviénen, recounts two lovers conversing through an intermediary as they try to determine whether they are in fact soulmates, while “Greensleeves,” a ditty penned by a bard in the court of Ost-in-Edhil, consists of the singer’s insistence that they have been wronged by their beloved, but will remain true regardless. _(Footnote: This bard’s name is lost to time, as s/he no doubt perished in the Deceiver’s first attacks, but critics have long argued that the simple lyrics betray this bard’s love for Celebrimbor Curufinwion himself, as evidenced by the almost-obsessive fascination with the Lord of the Mírdain’s heraldic colors.)_ When performed together, “Greensleeves” typically comes first, as if the wrong were done before the discovery of true love and harmony: this arrangement, with “Fair” coming second, is meant to signify that the wrong is forgiven or overlooked as the lovers are re-united.

 **Sample lyrics:** Alas, my love, you do me wrong / To cast me off discourteously / And I have loved you oh so long / Delighting in your company / If you intend to be this way / It does the more enrapture me / And even so I still remain / A lover in captivity." 

 

“I thought I told you never to return.” Oh, he had, but Celebrimbor would have been surprised had his order been followed.

 And Ann- _his former lover_ knew it.

“You did make such a request, once, but truly? It has been centuries, has it not, and this is the reception that I find when I return to my beloved?” The Maia leaned against the doorjamb as casually as he uttered this falsehood. “I did hope to make certain that you had realized how badly you were overreacting.” 

How much else had been false? 

“It was not a request to leave Ost-in-Edhil, Ann- _ah_ , my – my lord.” It was impossible to think how else he could address the being before him. The name of old fit no longer, and the name of older still burned upon Celebrimbor’s tongue when he even thought of using it. “It was an order.”

“Mmm. Amusing, as you certainly have no authority by which to order me.” The Maia straightened from his indolent slouch in one sinuous movement, and Celebrimbor fought the urge to step back as he walked toward him. “Dear heart, I understand your anger-“ 

“Do you, truly? I wonder,” Celebrimbor snarled, with more force than the fear he actually felt, but the Maia continued unperturbed: “but I thought we had agreed, long ago, that there would be no more lies between us.”

“An agreement without foundation, given that it was made with the very Lord of Lies himself!” Celebrimbor cried, but then the Maia was upon him.

“Shhhh,” he crooned. Five beautiful long fingers covered Celebrimbor’s mouth, and Celebrimbor had never before been so aware of how much unnatural strength was concealed in such unassuming flesh. The Maia’s fingers were immovable, and his grip was like a vice of steel upon Celebrimbor’s jaw.

“Shhh, dear one,” the Maia repeated. “We are even, in fact, if you will: after all, you have concealed from me far more than you bleat about my ever concealing from you. Dear heart, where are the Rings?”

  

~ ~ ~

 **Title** : All I want this winter

 **Cross-reference** : re-interpretation by an Adunaic folk singer <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDACj0tkD-s>

**Account** : A beautiful love song of unknown origin, “All I want” is commonly performed during festivals, at betrothal feasts, and for the early spring celebrations. Even scholars cannot taint this sweet melody and its heartfelt lyrics with their dissention: the speaker of “All I want” simply pines for their beloved and wishes to stand beside them, valuing closeness and mutuality over all the other delights of the winter season. It is a popular tune among all races, though Men in particular seem to find it poignant.   

 **Sample lyrics:** “I just want you for my own / More than you could ever know / Make my wish come true / All I want this winter is you.”

 

 “Trust me, dear heart: this pains me as much as it does you,” Annatar – no, _Sauron_ – says regretfully. Celebrimbor would have laughed, even as recently as an hour ago, but right now the pain is too overwhelming to even pretend at humor.

But Sauron simply adjusts the stiletto blade beneath his fingernail, twisting it right and left before slowly pushing it a hair deeper. Celebrimbor cries out against the gag, but even to his own ears the sound is weak beyond what being muffled would cause. 

Ann- _Sauron_ is all solicitousness. “Shall I have that removed?” Celebrimbor is not sure how he expects an answer – in the mining language of the Khazad, perhaps? But Sauron removes the thick leather strap from between his teeth all the same, wiping away the bloody spittle with all the care that Annatar would have used. 

Had Annatar ever had occasion to relieve his lover of bloody spittle, of course. 

“Flex your jaw, that will help the stiffness,” Sauron advises, but Celebrimbor is too drained, exhausted, benumbed, to do much more than stare up at him. Let his mouth lie slack, let the tears leak from his eyes – Celebrimbor has done!  

 _How have we come to this?_  he asks his enemy, across the fraying remains of the mental bond he used to share with his lover. Had he the energy, and the tongue, he would try to ask aloud instead, rather than sully the last remaining piece of his past life with Annatar, but he has little choice in the matter. 

“I have told you before, and I will remind you again: _we_ have not come to this,” Sauron says angrily. “ _You_ chose to force us both to this by not simply telling me where the Rings are!”

There is more to this tirade, but it is all the same, and Celebrimbor has already heard it many times. Perhaps feeling his weakening resistance, the call of Mandos echoes a little louder, and this time, Celebrimbor looses his grip and follows. 

Sauron shrieks in the distance somewhere behind him. 

 

 ~ ~ ~

 **Title** : “These three kings”

 **Cross-reference** : [A fireside performance observed surreptitiously at a closed gathering of the Dúnedain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnvZ37wTrWA)

 **Account:** A powerful lament first heard among the Númenórean Exiles, “These three kings” weaves together the firsthand descriptions of three mortal kings who have journeyed to bring a last and greatest king gifts and of tribute. Perhaps the most contentious of the collected carols, “These three kings” is odd in that it does not subscribe to any documented portion of Númenórean history, particularly in that it does not number the rulers of Numenór with any accuracy. _(Footnote: Lord Elrond’s notes show that there were twelve faithful kings beginning with his own ill-fated brother, then eleven of increasing ill-faith until Tar-Palantir, and finally the blasphemous last king Ar-Pharazôn.)_ Despite its oddities and its relatively slow arrangement, though, “These three kings” remains especially popular among the southern Mannish settlements.  

 **Sample lyrics** : "Myrrh is mine: its bitter perfume / Breathes a life of gathering doom. / Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,/ Sealed in a stone-cold tomb."

 

“It amuses me that you think I cared about Pharazôn,” the Zigûrun told her. 

“I never once believed that you did.” Míriel was exhausted, and the smoke from the great sacrificial fires threaded its oily way through her lungs as if to corrupt her very spirit. “The only reason that no one knows of it is because none would hear me speak, these last five years.”  

“A prophetess!” the Zigûrun taunted, pressing an alabaster hand to his pristine temples in a mock fainting fit. “Far-seer, what do you perceive in my future?” 

Míriel had never had the Sight (or the strength, she thought) of her foremother Ancalimë, but the vision that washed over her now could not have been anything else. She saw the Sea rise, and rise, and rise, sweeping all away before it. . . 

Perhaps such a vision should have terrified her. Perhaps, if it had struck even a few days earlier, it would have. 

But today, Míriel was not frightened to think upon death, the Gift of Men that her husband had so foolishly scorned. 

“The Sea,” she murmured, uncaring whether the Zigûrun would heed her or not. “It will come, and as it did so many Ages past, it will wash us all away. Perhaps the world will be left a little cleaner for being rid of our sins.” 

She started when the Zigurun replied. Apparently he had been listening. 

“Mmm. It will not help, this vision of yours, this Sea – and that is if it comes to pass at all. Nothing we have wrought can ever be truly washed away, for good or for ill, no matter how many lands the Powers think to remove from this world. Hah! As if they think they can frighten me, with their paltry waves.”

 

 ~ ~ ~

 **Title** : The Romenna Carol

 **Cross-reference** : [One of the only surviving transcriptions of the Carol as performed among Amandil’s folk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltVWs4jDYsw)

 **Account** : Little is actually documented regarding the Romenna Carol. The highly unsettling lyrics that most Men claim belong with the tune cannot possibly have been written as a means of joy and cheer, let alone as a song that any tradition would be proud to pass along to its descendants.

 **Sample Lyrics** : “And now the King / In his raging / Ordered he hath this day / His men of might / In his own sight / All children young to slay!”

 

Elendur’s mood darkened as he recognized the opening strains the harpist now rippled through.

“I hate this song,” he muttered.

“We all do, young one,” Isildur replied, his voice even. Elendur hadn’t even realized his father was listening.

Might as well make the best of it then. “Then why do we keep singin’ it? It’s not like we can learn anything from the story, everyone a’ready knows Pharazôn was a bad man.”

“It is more complicated than that. Not enough know the truth, and someone other than our Firstborn kinfolk should stand witness to the horrors that Men commit against one another,” Isildur said grimly. “I will not see the strength of Men fail upon my watch, and that means keeping alive our memories of the wrongs our Enemy has done us, yes. But it also means remembering that oftentimes we committed to His ways ourselves.”

Something about this wording didn’t seem right to Elendur. “But, Father: _we_ didn’t do this, did we? _We_ weren’t the bad guys?” It’s pitiful, how his voice rises at the end as though he doesn’t know his own history, but Elendur suddenly needs his father’s reassurance that the Faithful, the Line of Amandil, never killed children like the song says. . .

“We were not,” Isildur said, but his voice was distant. Elendur wondered why. “That does not mean we were completely innocent in the darkening of Numenór. A Man can be guilty of greed, or blindness, or fear, while still keeping his hands clean of blood. And so we all were, even those of us who kept the Faith: greedy for life, blind to how our kings were failing, and fearful of doing anything about what little we could bring ourselves to see of our Enemy.”

“Gildor said that the Enemy’s nothing compared to enemies he’s fought.” The Elf and his band, the first of the vaunted Eldar that Elendur had ever actually seen, had shown up among the encampment mere days before.

“Inglorion can keep his fool mouth shut, and he would if he stopped to think even a moment upon what he’s about to say.”

“Father!” Elendur protested.

“Son,” Isildur repeated, but his voice was oddly gentle despite the implied reprimand.

“But-“

“No excuses – not from Inglorion, and not from you. Naming our Enemy is not diminishing His old master, but He Himself is the foe that we are meant to face: in our time, and with the weapons we have at hand. If He’s not high and mighty enough for Inglorion and the songs of the Elves, so be it. That doesn’t make Him any less real, or any less a duty that we must resist.”

After a moment’s reflection, Elendur decided that none of this explained the horrible Carol to his satisfaction any better. “I still hate that song,” he said, stubborn to the last.

“So do I, son.” Isildur ruffled his hair, and Elendur leaned into the touch instead of shrugging away like a big boy would probably do. Next time he’d move away, he decided: tonight he was just a little tired, and a bit scared, and still didn’t understand. “But that’s exactly why we still sing it.”

 

~ ~ ~

 **Title** : "You’d better keep watch"

 **Cross-reference** : [performance recorded in a large city of Men who obviously hold no remembrance of how grim the subject matter is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYIVYxZOWwo)

  **Account** : Composed sometime during the long siege of the Last Alliance, this battle anthem served two purposes. First, it offered warning for the Sindarin and Silvan troops who had never fought a direct engagement with Sauron before; second, it became a rallying cry for the Noldorin troops, reminding them of the many ways in which the Enemy could use any sign of disheartenment. In addition, its martial airs made “You’d better keep watch” an effective inspiration to the many disparate races, tribes, and peoples who eventually comprised the Last Alliance. _(Footnote: Some critics, resting on their own Alliance laurels, try to argue that a single song was not enough to unite Men, and Elves, and Dwarves, and beasts, but such critics obviously have not heard this tune performed adequately.)_ Due to the overwhelming success of the Alliance, “You’d better keep watch” remains a popular midwinter song even as the influence of evil has obviously left our world for good.

 **Sample lyrics** : "You’d better keep watch / You’d better not cry / Better not pout / I’m telling you why / He sees you when you're sleeping / He knows when you're awake / He knows when you've been bad or good / So be good for goodness’ sake!"

 

“He already knows we are here!” Oropher cried, slamming one lightly-mailed fist into the table. Behind him, his heir jumped at the sudden sound.

Ereinion winced just looking at the wrinkles this left on his priceless map.

To Ereinion’s left, the waspish Erestor sighed. “On this much we are agreed: I imagine that the Enemy knows exactly where we are, as well as our numbers down to the smallest errand-runner. After all, our command tents alone each make as much noise as a herd of oliphaunts. But enough of that. Are you suggesting a solution, Master Sinda?”

Oropher might not have realized that he was being mocked, but he certainly caught Erestor’s caustic tone just fine. “If you need to ask what the solution to a war is, Noldo, than you truly are as stupid as we were told.” His fist slammed down again. “Fight Him! We engage. Now!” Each second syllable was punctuated by another blow to the unoffending parchment beneath Oropher’s fist, and Ereinion heaved an internal sigh as he noticed Erestor’s eye being drawn to the wrinkles as well.

Wonderful. Like his kinsman truly needed another reason to dislike the Sinda king, or the Sinda needed another reason to go for a Noldorin throat.

“I wonder,” Erestor said. Quite nastily.

“I’m certain,” Oropher began, but Ereinion raised his voice over them both. Did they not see that this – this – _disharmony_ was probably just what the Enemy wanted?

“Enough, both of you. Erestor, your comments are unneeded. Lord Oropher, you have agreed that your troops would await my signal during the engagement.”

“I did, but that was before I began to doubt your competency in signaling,” Oropher snarled. With one final slam to the map, he strode from the tent, his willowy young son a shadow at his heels.

 

~ ~ ~

  **Title** : "I wonder as I wander"

 **Cross-reference** : [A surprisingly beautiful rendition wheedled from the bard of Gildor Inglorian’s raggedy troupe of disreputables, who had heard it somewhere unspeakable during the course of her travels ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIZjyf1jhKE)

 **Account** : Neither this tune nor its words appear in any account of the Eldar until the song, fully-developed, burst onto the Imladris music scene approximately S.A. 1698. Originally only performed by a single wandering bard, “I wonder” became a popular fixture of the minstrel circuit for several centuries until the initial singer* _(*well into her cup one night)_ admitted that it was of orcish origin: the song immediately fell from popularity, although once sobered the bard never admitted or repeated the claim. Such origins are highly unlikely, though, given the beauty of the song and the deep, reflective melancholy of its simple lyrics. None but the Eldar could have created such poignant music, no matter the fallacious claims that all detractors of true art so like to bandy about.

 **Sample lyrics** : “I wonder as I wander out under the sky / How many know that our lord did come for to die / for poor ornery people like you and like I? / I wonder as I wander out under the sky.”

 

Folk ‘as had oats for brains liked t’ whine about the Big Boss, and His tempers, and His moods, but you had t’ say this much for Him: He knew how t’ keep his fighters in eats, and there was always somewhere new t’ go and someone new t’ off. This was the life, and Foshân knew it! 

The only problem was that ol’ Bûshnûrz had been singin’ again. 

It wasn’ usually this much of a problem. The song was stoopid, and Foshân didn’t know why he listened. You couldn’ eat music, or play with it, or wear it, or fuck it - it just made you want to scratch out the insides of your ears with how sad it was, an’ how it made you feel like you had lost something that was yours, or mebbe should have had been yours, an’ how that lost thing was never comin’ back. 

Like he said. Stoopid.   

Bûshnûrz liked t’ say that the sad feeling of music was related to dyin’. Ok, ok, Bûshnûrz was crazy, but she was also mad old – too saggy and twiggy to fight annymore, an’ so old that some muttered she’d been around even since before the Big Boss himself. Stoopid talk, of course, but she did know things that no-one else could explain, like how t’ feed the sick ones certain molds, an’ how to wash out wounds so you mostly wouldn’t lost the leg, an’ things like that. . . 

So Foshân fed her, sometimes, when she came trailin’ in t’ the new camp a day or two or three after the army had set up, an’ he watched her gum her way through the leathery leavin’s no one else wanted. She’d probably starve one of these days when it took her too long to catch up with the march, but eh – what else could he do? 

It was a, whaddid Sarge call it – a fact of life. It was a fact of life, that Bûshnûrz was old and probably gonna die some day, when she couldn’ catch up with the camps fast enough and just starved away somewhere. This shouldn’a made Foshân sad or mad, but it did. Because if Bûshnûrz died, who else would know the old stories? She had some good ones, she did: she liked to tell how the orcs wasn’t always orcs, and how when you started to die, sometimes you’d hear a voice like a Call to someplace better, just for you. 

Not all orcs heard the Call, Bûshnûrz said. And that was a damn shame, she said, because the Call was their right, for all it’d been stolen. (What right, Foshân asked once, an’ who took it away? He'd fight them for her, see if he wouldn't! But even Bûshnûrz didn’t know the answer to that.) 

. . . 

She doesn’t turn up, one day. He saves scraps of his meat for her, but when it’s been three nights with no sign, he grabs his leavin’s an’ a water-skin and backtracks out into the wastelands t’ find her. (He’ll probably be cut as a deserter when he goes back – _if_ he goes back, he realizes he’s thinkin’, and isn’ that a surprise. . .)   

She’s past meat, an’ water, an’ blankets, by the time he finds her. Foshân can’t do nothin’ annymore but hold her close so she don’t shiver so much. 

She doesn’t even seem t’ know it’s him. 

“Can – can y’ hear it?” he asks. “The Call?” There’s a slight quiver in his voice, an’ he can’t even say what he’s scared of. 

“Dunno,” Bûshnûrz admits. Her voice is very weak and very low. From anyone else, Foshân would be thinkin’ of eatin’ them. But not Bûshnûrz. Not now. “I dunno. Is it really there, or is it just because I wannit to be there?” 

“Aw, whassit good for anyways?” Foshân scoffs, tryna comfort her. Just in case she doesn’t hear her lousy Call. 

“ ‘S good for tellin’ me I wasn’t wrong,” Bûshnûrz whispers. Her voice trembles worse than his, an’ he has to lean over t’ hear her at all. 

“Nothin’ you were ever wrong about, old one,” Foshân whispers. 

“I was wrong for going into the dark alone, I think, an’ I was wrong because I was turned into this.” Bûshnûrz out an’ out whimpers. “Nobody’s gonna wanna Call something like me, an’ rightful so. But I could spit they won’t Call you young’uns. Never did nothing wrong but be born and raised and taught. I – oh!” 

He’s about t’ tell her that that’s his whole life, right there, but Bûshnûrz‘s eyes catch on a blink and don’t come open again. Her breath rattles in her throat once, twice, and then stops comin' right at all.   

He really, really hopes she heard somethin’. He doesn’t believe in the Call, or the gods, or in orcs bein’ anything but orcs – it’s all stories, probably someone tryna make the bratlings settle down at night – but sometimes when it’s dark an’ cold out an’ a battle coming on tomorrow, he does wanna believe in something like that. He wants it really, really bad - an answer to why some of them just has to fight, and then fight again just for food and sleep and things, and never see the good things that they're told they're actual fighting for. 

It's stoopid, is what it is. But, maybe, if Bûshnûrz ain’t around to believe it annymore – maybe Foshân can believe for her, and sing her song for other folks. ‘S the least he can do, seems like.

 


End file.
